


So On We Go

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:53:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, four times Mycroft was allowed to be a brother and one time he really, really wasn't. </p>
<p>Title stolen from The Hollies</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Baby

The Baby was born four weeks early. That was six hundred and seventy two hours. Mycroft knew this because he had asked Father when The Baby would come and then marked the date carefully on his calendar. Everyone seemed surprised that Mycroft was excited about the prospect of a sibling when he seemed to pay so little attention to anything that wasn’t maths or science or reading, but he knew better than all of them. At seven years old, Mycroft knew most things better than everyone else and so he knew that he was looking forwards to The Baby because finally he might have someone in his life who was as clever as him. He’d read all about genetics in the older boys’ library at school, and he’d calculated the odds; The Baby might be like him.

Then The Baby came early and for a minute he wasn’t so sure. Mycroft was woken by Father at eighteen minutes past three in the morning, on the sixth of November. Father said that Mummy wasn’t feeling very well and that The Baby might be coming. He was taking her to the hospital and Mycroft was to go back to sleep because Mrs Turner the housekeeper was going to stay behind with him and everything would be alright.

Mycroft nodded and watched Father leave before lying on his side and gazing at the calendar. A whole four weeks early! What was The Baby doing? Why wasn’t it waiting like the doctors said it should? Mycroft closed his eyes and hoped with all his heart that this wasn’t a sign that The Baby was stupid.

\--SO ON WE GO—

Fourteen hours after Father had woken him up, Mrs Turner drove Mycroft to the hospital. Father was waiting outside, big dark circles under his eyes and his shirt all rumpled. He took Mycroft’s hand and led him through a maze of corridors until they came to a place that smelled like milk and had the sound of babies crying. They stopped outside of a door and Father bent down to look him in the eye.

“Mummy is very tired, Mycroft. You have to be nice and quiet, alright?”

“Yes,” he said seriously, “Is The Baby here?”

“See for yourself,” said Father, pushing open the door. Mummy was sat in a bed and dressed in her own pink silk gown, and although she was tired she still smiled. In her arms was a bundle of blue blankets, or so it looked. Father lifted Mycroft onto the bed and he gazed at Mummy, his eyes wide.

“Is that The Baby?” 

“Yes, my darling,” she nodded, “Come and sit next to me.”

Doing as he was told, Mycroft scooted to her side and found himself gazing into a tiny, red, wrinkled face. It was the ugliest thing he had ever seen but he didn’t tell Mummy in case she got upset. 

“This is your baby brother, Mycroft.”

“A brother?” he breathed, still looking curiously at that little face, “What’s his name?”

“Well, we don’t know yet. We have two ideas – would you like to choose which one you like best?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Father had moved to sit on the other side of the bed, nodding his approval that Mycroft be trusted with this decision.

“I like the name Sherrinford, and Father likes Sherlock,” Mummy said slowly, “Which one do you like? We don’t mind which one you choose.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said decisively, “I like Sherlock the best.”

“Sherlock,” Father murmured, “Sherlock it is. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Would you like to hold Sherlock, Mycroft?” Mummy asked. Nodding eagerly, Mycroft held his arms out carefully as Mummy placed the bundle in his grip. The movement must have woken the baby, because when Mycroft looked at him again, Sherlock’s pale eyes had opened and were staring right at him.

“He’s looking at me, Mummy.”

“Of course. He knows his big brother when he sees him. He loves you already, Mycroft.”

And although he had read enough books to know that a baby couldn’t possibly recognise him already, Mycroft liked that idea a lot.


	2. Puddles and Tantrums

There was something wrong with Sherlock.

That’s what people always said. He went from being practically silent until the age of two into screaming non-stop for what felt like forever, but was actually just for four months and nine days which Mycroft knew because he counted. Then he began to babble but only when he thought no one else was listening. He was almost four before he talked to anyone else and then he was picky about who he chose. And sometimes he would still throw the most terrible tantrums, screaming and screaming like he was being tortured but unable to explain why afterwards.

Then there were the patterns. He would sit for hours and hours, his eyes tracing patterns in the wallpaper or the carpet or on Mummy’s dresses and he would cry if he was taken away from them. He separated all of the food on his plate into groups before he would eat them, and when Father brought home sweets he had learned to buy ones that were all the same colour or Sherlock would have to separate them too.

Sherlock was three when the word ‘autism’ was first whispered in the house. Mycroft didn’t know what that meant, so he crept into Father’s study one day and he looked it up. In a clinical way, the things that the book said did apply to Sherlock, but Mycroft didn’t believe them. Everyone else was convinced that there was something wrong with his brother, but Mycroft thought that just maybe there was something very right instead.

\--SO ON WE GO—

It had been raining for days and they hadn’t been allowed to go out. For Mycroft it was no great hardship – just more time to catch up on reading and the newspapers – but six year old Sherlock wasn’t coping so well. Father was away and Mummy had been in her room ill for almost a week, so Mycroft was watching his brother and he knew that for every minute longer they remained inside, Sherlock was edging closer to one of his major tantrums. 

Eventually, thinking that he still had time to coax Sherlock out of his episode, Mycroft decided it was best to defy Mummy and take his brother outside for a little while. They stood at the front door, Mycroft crouched to fasten the buttons on Sherlock’s coat, and he looked up just in time to see a small fist hurtling towards his head. Calmly, he caught it mid-air and shook his head, deliberately ignoring the look of malice in his brother’s eyes.

“No, Sherlock.”

His firm denial seemed to sate the little boy for a moment or two, but the attempt was not a good thing. Sherlock was inherently self destructive, and only when he was going to have a major outburst did he turn that violence outwards.  
Shutting the door quietly so that Mummy wouldn’t hear, Mycroft gripped Sherlock’s hand tightly and let him kick at the puddles as they walked. This was something that only Mycroft was allowed to do, hold Sherlock’s hand. Mummy always steered him by the shoulder and Father would have him hook a finger round one of his belt loops if they went anywhere busy, but for some reason, along with several other little quirks, Sherlock reacted differently with his brother.  
They made it halfway to the park before Sherlock suddenly tried to wrench himself free of Mycroft’s grip. When he realised his brother had been waiting and had too tight a hold, he tried to hit him again. Mycroft just stood still and held the fist in his spare hand.

“Sherlock, calm down!” he ordered, ignoring the looks of soaking wet passer bys, “Stop it right now!”

“NO!” Sherlock shouted, but his hands suddenly dropped anyway and he closed his eyes tightly, humming loudly and tunelessly.

The second warning. Too late. Time to go home.

Sherlock’s hands lifted once more to cover his ears, shutting off that last sense, and the humming stopped and the screaming started.

“IT HURTS, MYCROFT! IT HURTS, IT HURTS!”

Always the same.

It hurts.

Mycroft had long ago worked out that these episodes were the result of some unknown assault on his brother’s senses, something that had usually been festering for a while before the little boy finally had enough. Mycroft also knew that the best way to get his brother to calm down was to stick to a routine. Sherlock liked routine.

Step One – Get him somewhere quiet and familiar

Mycroft scooped Sherlock into his arms and walked as quickly as he could back to the house, ignoring as best he could the screaming in his ear.

“MAKE IT STOP, MAKE IT STOP!”

In the door and upstairs to Mycroft’s own bedroom, with the desk that Sherlock liked to sit under and the big bed and the little sofa.

Step Two – Make him comfortable

It was difficult to remove Sherlock’s coat and boots when he was kicking and flailing, but Mycroft had long ago mastered the art. He tossed the wet things into a corner along with his own and turned back to find his brother on the floor.

“IT HURTS, MYCROFT!”

Step Three – Start talking, using The Voice, and don’t stop for anything

The strict voice that he had used outside was no use once Sherlock had started to have his fit. That was something that Father didn’t understand. So Mycroft began to talk softly, almost sing-song like.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m here, little one. I’m here. Nothing can hurt you. I’m here, brother. Mycroft’s here. I’m here. I’m here.”

Step Four – Combine with step three. Gentle touches to give him something else to think about

Sherlock was on his back, always helpful, because one of the best things to do was press gently on his chest with one hand, to help him control his breathing. Mycroft did so, and Sherlock’s little hands eventually released his ears and came to grip on to Mycroft’s. The screaming turned into hysterical breathing, which sounded worse but was actually better, and with his spare hand Mycroft rubbed Sherlock’s hair and shoulders until the breathing had turned into sobs.

Step Five – A blanket if possible and somewhere comfortable to sit

Picking Sherlock up and carrying him to the little sofa, Mycroft sat down with his brother on his lap and covered them in a blanket. He used to wrap just Sherlock up, but the little boy had crawled out of the cocoon and cleaved himself as tightly as he could to his brother’s body, so he didn’t bother trying to separate him anymore.

Step Six – Wait for him to calm down

Sometimes it only took a few minutes, sometimes it took hours. However long it took, neither of them would move until Sherlock stopped crying. Mycroft had missed dinner before because he wouldn’t leave his brother. If it was taking a long time Father would sometimes sneak in and hand Mycroft a book , an odd mix of envy, relief and bafflement on his face as he observed his youngest son clinging to his brother as though the world would stop if he let go.

This time it only took twenty minutes for Sherlock to go silent. Mycroft ran a hand affectionately over his hair.

“Tell me, little one. What hurt?”

“I don’t know.”

And Mycroft sighed, because that was Step Seven and it was the only one that never ever worked. He asked because he wanted to know, so that he could try and stop Sherlock being in such distress the next time it threatened, but the little boy never had an answer for him.

“It’s alright, brother. Don’t worry. I’m here.”

“I know,” was the tiny-voiced reply, as Sherlock snuggled even closer to Mycroft and closed his eyes.


	3. Funeral

It happened right in the middle of the exams, and he was given special permission to go home. He would be awarded the marks that the teachers predicted for him, which in Mycroft’s case were very good. Very good. He’d probably end the term at the top of the year.  
Which was all very well, apart from the fact that Father was dead.

\---SO ON WE GO---

Mummy didn’t cry, not for the whole day. She stood numbly in the church and she stood numbly in the graveyard and she stood numbly at the wake afterwards, a stranger in her own house. That left everything – all of the talking to people and graciously accepting their condolences – to Mycroft. He didn’t really mind – it was good practice for going into politics after all – but he was keen for the day to be over before it had even begun. 

It was difficult to pretend.

Because, as much as Mycroft cared for, respected and – yes – loved, his father, he could see that the man was better off now. He had been ill for a long time, the horrible disease eating away at him, and to Mycroft it seemed more of a relief than a tragedy that he should be free of his suffering and pain. No one else seemed to understand that though, and he knew enough to keep quiet about his opinions; other people tended to think something was wrong.

Other people were fools.

Eventually, after what felt like far too long, the house was empty of everyone except for the people who should have been there. Mummy had already gone to bed, guided away by the infinitely patient Mrs Turner, and Mycroft finally had time to realise that he hadn’t seen Sherlock for a while.

The boy had been outwardly unaffected by Father’s death, apart from the fact that he hadn’t spoken a word since it happened. Not one. He stood beside Mycroft at the graveside and appeared to be paying attention to everything except what was happening in front of him, apart from he had slipped his hand into Mycroft’s and held it all the way back to the house. 

Then he’d disappeared.

Loosening his tie, Mycroft started up the stairs.

“Sherlock? Where are you?”

Silence. It was a long shot that he would answer, but Mycroft had thought that once the stress of the social gathering was over he might find his voice again.

No such luck.

Luckily though, he hadn’t gone far. He was in Mycroft’s bedroom, his rapidly growing, lanky, ten year old body squeezed into the gap under the desk where he used to sit when he was very little and Mycroft was working.

“Have you been there all afternoon?”

Nodding, Sherlock slid out and unfolded himself, lying flat on his back and gazing up at his brother. Stepping around him, Mycroft changed out of his suit, fussily hanging it in the bag and folding his shirt for the laundry. Sherlock had already changed out of his suit, he noticed, and was wearing something that only on a second inspection did Mycroft realise was an old shirt of Father’s.

Ah.

Time to proceed with caution.

Once he was changed, Mycroft lowered himself to the floor and lay down next to this brother. It wasn’t often that he got the opportunity to look at his ceiling from this angle, what with it being dark when he was in bed, and the thought suddenly struck him that to truly understand how Sherlock’s mind worked, one needed to get used to these different angles. Get used to the way that Sherlock saw things.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Turning his head, Mycroft found himself staring into those impenetrable eyes. He smiled thinly.

“What am I thinking, Sherlock?”

“It doesn’t matter. I also know what you should be thinking. Your brain is just like mine – you’re just too lazy to use it.”

There was nothing to do, no other way to react, other than laugh. Even Sherlock smirked, his hands coming up to tangle in his hair as he watched Mycroft chuckling. Sherlock could never help himself when he had amused his brother, Mycroft had noticed recently; he was serious to the point of solemn most of the time, but Mycroft laughing always moved him to react. It was another of those things that they shared, another of those things that had exasperated their father and would invoke either mirth or a fit of depression in Mummy.

Speaking of Father…

“Sherlock-”

“Do we have to talk about this, Mycroft?”

“I think it’s important, Sherlock. You haven’t said a word in nine days. What have you been thinking about?”

“Everyone keeps saying that they’re sorry.”

“That is normally the protocol in this type of situation. You have to accept it gracefully.”

“But why?” Sherlock demanded, reaching over and absently punching Mycroft’s arm, “Father was in pain. I could see it, you could see it. Why would people be sorry that he isn’t feeling bad anymore?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Mycroft sighed, his internal monologue of the day voiced right back at him, “But you must understand that people do not see the world like you or I. They are sorry because we have lost someone that we love. They are sorry for us, not for him.”

“Well, I don’t want them to be sorry for me,” Sherlock snapped, peeling himself from the floor and taking a flying leap at the bed, “I’m not sorry for me and I’m not sorry for Father!”

He buried his head under the nearest pillow and went silent once more. Mycroft sat up slowly, chewing thoughtfully on his lip. He crawled over to the bed and pulled himself up. Sherlock moved over to give him room but said nothing.

“Where did you get this shirt, Sherlock?”

“Father’s wardrobe,” he said, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“Why are you wearing it?”

Silence.

“Why are you wearing it?”

“Father isn’t going to use it anymore.”

“Sherlock-”

“I don’t know!” he cried, rolling onto his back and glaring at Mycroft, “I don’t know why.”

A lesser man might have been convinced by the performance, but Mycroft was no such man. He saw how Sherlock’s hands clutched at the material bunching around his chest, his thin knuckles white. His anger was clear on his face but his eyes were pleading. Whatever was going on in his head, he couldn’t explain it, any better than Mycroft imagined he would be able to explain his own thoughts on the matter. Subjectivity had always made things more complicated than they needed to be. It was no wonder Sherlock was confused.

So, instead of pushing him further, Mycroft lay down next to his brother once more and wrapped his arms around him.

“You can stay in here tonight, if you wish.”

“I’m not a baby, Mycroft. I don’t need a hug to make the monsters go away.”

“I know. You can still stay, if you want.”

Reaching over to switch off the lamp, Sherlock buried his face in Mycroft’s arm and said nothing more. Smirking into the curly mop of hair tickling his nose, Mycroft closed his eyes.


	4. Vauxhall

He eventually turned up in Vauxhall of all places.

Sherlock had been missing for seven weeks and nine days when Mycroft got the call that his little brother had been spotted and followed back to the place. His idea to give Sherlock’s picture to every homeless person he saw, along with a ten pound note and change for a pay phone, had been a stroke of genius. He’d struck gold with a phone call from a young man, who would only identify himself as Gary, to say that he was standing outside the flat and he wouldn’t move until Mycroft got there.

The whole thing took less than an hour. Stepping out of his chauffeured car, Mycroft slipped Gary a hundred pounds before getting one of the gentlemen he had brought with him to kick in the door of the flat.

It wasn’t a terrible looking place, as far as cheap dives went, and Mycroft realised with a groan that Sherlock was probably squatting. They’d been very lucky to catch him if he was moving around a lot. The opportunity to ponder the whole terrible situation didn’t last long however, halted by the appearance of a whirlwind that started trying to tussle with Mycroft’s security. It wasn’t really a fair fight – the two men he had ‘borrowed’ from his department were taller and heavier than Sherlock by too large an amount to make it evenly matched in any sense of the word. And that would be on a good day.  
On this day, Sherlock was barely recognisable; his whippet-thin body had shrunk to the point of looking emaciated, his already pronounced cheekbones sharp as razors. His eyes were bright, but from illness rather than vigour, and his hair was a tangled mess. He looked terrible, the worst that he had ever looked, and Mycroft wanted to kill him.

“Sherlock-”

“Piss off Mycroft,” his brother snapped, putting up a struggle against the hands of the men holding him between them, “What are you doing here?”

“I believe the Americans call it an intervention,” he said mildly, signalling with a nod that Sherlock could be removed and put into the waiting car. Mycroft followed them silently, the umbrella held far too tightly in his fist the only thing betraying his agitation.

“I don’t need an intervention,” Sherlock eventually replied, seated between the two burly men, his eyes darting as he looked for an escape, “I just need to be left alone.”

“Mmm, yes, I can see that is going well. Tell me, were you planning on starving to death or overdosing first?”

Growling, Sherlock tried a few half-hearted swipes at his escort. One of the men caught his hand easily, shaking his head at Mycroft.

No threat from this kid. Nothing to worry about.

“Mummy’s been asking for you,” he said conversationally, “She’ll be so pleased you’ve turned up. Alive.”

Silence.

“Of course, in your case, you’ve managed to make the term almost relative-”

“Shut up, Mycroft! Where are you taking me? No, let me guess. Some private rehab facility that will try and make me talk about my feelings with other junkies who wouldn’t be able to understand me even if I rammed it down their throats and you expect-”

“No.”

“What?”

“You’re going somewhere private, yes. But not a rehab clinic. I know you don’t play well with other children. Ah, here we are.”

The car pulled into a large driveway guarded by a pair of high gates that were also protecting a building set back from the road.

“A hospital?” Sherlock said incredulously, his anger forgotten for the moment, “Just a hospital?”

“Not quite. A hospital with a secure wing for criminally insane patients and a director who owes me a favour.”

“Criminally insane?” Sherlock snapped as he was pulled unceremoniously from the car, “I’m not insane, Mycroft!”

“I know. You won’t have to go anywhere near the other patients. They’ll keep you quite separate from them.”

“I’m not insane!” Sherlock shouted, as though he hadn’t heard a word Mycroft said, “I’m not!”

“I am aware, brother!” Mycroft raised his voice, leaning in to murmur in Sherlock’s ear, “If you would take a moment to think, you will remember that I am the only one in the family who does not believe that you are.”

“Then why are you leaving me here?” Sherlock whispered, almost a whimper, and caught Mycroft totally off guard.

“This is just the best place for you, Sherlock. Do well and you won’t be here for long.”

Two porters with a wheelchair came running from the door and the straps attached to the legs and arms did nothing to calm Sherlock down. He fought so vehemently that it took both the porters and the heavies to get him secure.  
Mycroft didn’t watch.

He couldn’t watch. This was his little brother. Someone had failed, and he wasn’t sure who.

Reaching out of his own accord, after Sherlock’s hands had been tied down, Mycroft rubbed his brother’s shoulder just like he used to do and moved the hand up to tug lightly at his hair. He couldn’t help it. Sherlock flinched away, straining to break all of the contact with Mycroft.

“Don’t touch me,” he spat as he was wheeled away, “Just piss off and leave me alone.”


	5. After The Fall

He’d never slept well. 

It was a common trait of the Holmes gene pool, light and restless slumber, easily disturbed and even easier to put off altogether. Father had been on tablets for as long as Mycroft had known him, his doctor giving up and prescribing them on a frighteningly regular basis. Sherlock coped in own way, running himself into the ground for days and days until he literally had to pass out. And Mycroft…well, he had the issue under control through sheer force of will and a shared ability with his brother to keep going if necessary. That was before though.

Since Sherlock died, Mycroft hadn’t slept well. He’d slipped into his brother’s routine of waiting until his exhausted body actually couldn’t cope anymore. His sick days had tripled in seven months. He was lucky he called his own shots, that much was true.

And in seven months he had long come to the conclusion that the reason behind his melancholy could only be related to his brother. Of course it was. Mycroft had long ago convinced himself that Sherlock died for the greater good – that as sad as the loss was, a dangerous criminal had been brought down too and that wasn’t a bad way to die at all, especially for someone who shone as brightly as his brother.

Which was all very well, except that he still couldn’t sleep, and the vague non-descript feeling that seemed to fill him up day by day didn’t go away.

\---SO ON WE GO---

“Sir,” Anthea said, letting herself into his office, “We’ve just had the strangest phone call.”

“What do you mean,” he sighed, less inclined to play mind games as of late than he once might have been.

“Well, the private line rang three times but stopped before I could answer it.”

“And?”

“And I called back and it went to an answering machine-”

“And?”

“Your answering machine, sir. The one at your house. The house where you live alone.”

“The housekeeper-”

“Doesn’t come in on Tuesdays, sir,” Anthea said anxiously, scanning his face for any sign that she had shaken him. He gazed at her for a moment, and then his eyes unfocused in a most un-Mycroft Holmes manner. Then there was a flurry of movement and he was hurrying past her, shrugging into his coat and talking all at once.

“Call down to Gerald. Tell him to get the car outside right now. I’m going home.”

\---SO ON WE GO---

With his standard issue revolver heavy in his pocket, Mycroft let himself in the front door. He hated guns, thought they were distasteful and really rather crude, but in some situations there was really nothing better for getting a message across.

The house was silent.

Deceptively silent.

But if he knew his invader like he thought he did, there was only one place that he would be.

Walking slowly up the stairs, stepping around the creaking ones with a care usually only employed by teenagers past their curfew, Mycroft arrived at the door to the master bedroom. There was no sound from inside, but then why would there be? 

Swallowing the murmur that was threatening to bubble over his lips, he threw the bedroom door open.

“Took you long enough. I could have been anyone.”

Mycroft couldn’t help himself. He just couldn’t help himself. He crossed the room in three short strides and threw his arms around his brother. Sherlock stood stiffly for a few seconds, surprised, and then he tentatively returned the hug. Feeling his brother’s arms around him, Mycroft laughed into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You bastard. You complete and utter bastard.”

“Now Mycroft,” Sherlock said, gently pulling himself away from his brother, “Be careful. Anyone would think that you’ve missed me from the way you’re acting.”

The sentiment was familiar, sarcasm to hide what they were really thinking, but there was a warmth to Sherlock’s words that was usually lacking and Mycroft took the message from that gladly. He grasped Sherlock by the elbows and looked at him closely. His brother looked tired, hungry, and Mycroft could only imagine what he had been up to for seven months. 

“Whatever you were doing, is it done?” he asked.

“It’s done. I’m coming home.”

“The good doctor is going to kill you.”

“I know.”

They made their way downstairs to the kitchen, where Mycroft poured them both very large glasses of brandy, and went through to the library with the sofa and the overstuffed chairs. Sherlock took the sofa, stretching out along its full length, and Mycroft one of the chairs. For a few minutes there was silence, and he took the opportunity to look over his brother again. He really was thin – Mrs Hudson would have a fit when she saw him, and force him to sit down to three meals a day, like clockwork. Sherlock would hate that, and Mycroft chuckled under his breath.

“What’s funny?”

“I’m just imagining the fires of Mrs Hudson’s ovens burning day and night as she tries to fatten you up.”

Groaning, Sherlock sat up and rubbed his eyes, bright from exhaustion. On a spur of the moment, Mycroft stood up and went to sit next to him. He couldn’t quite believe, despite all his eyes were telling him, that this was real. That Sherlock was really back and he was sat in the library and he was complaining about Mrs Hudson and he was drinking brandy. Perhaps something of it showed in Mycroft’s eyes, because Sherlock was watching him keenly and he suddenly leaned forwards and hugged Mycroft again. 

“It is me, Mycroft,” he whispered.

“I know,” Mycroft answered, reaching up and tugging gently on his brother’s over long hair, just as he used to do when they were children. He remembered the last time he had tried it, remembered how angry Sherlock was to be left in that hospital, and it was a relief when his younger brother just smiled instead. 

“I missed you, Sherlock.”

“I missed you too, Mycroft.” 

And if it was the closest they would ever get to ‘I love you’, it was good enough for Mycroft.


End file.
